


Came For My Soul, Stayed For The Coffee

by spaceboyharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Clumsy Harry, Falling In Love, Grim Reapers, Human Louis, M/M, Magic, One Shot, Sad Harry, Strangers to Lovers, reaper harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 18:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboyharry/pseuds/spaceboyharry
Summary: I grabbed the first projectile I could find, his dirty coffee cup, and launched it in the vicinity of his head, missing by inches.He flinched as it shattered against the wall, white chips falling to the floor. “Can you not-“ he ducked as a platter flew over his head, “-murder me before I can talk to you?”“I can’t murder you, you’re already dead, and you want to kill me!” I screamed, verging on the edge of hysterical, which was merited.Again, the jab about death deflated him, any spite and spirit he had in him dissipating into the atmosphere. “Thanks for reminding me.” He mumbled, sitting down roughly in a chair.





	Came For My Soul, Stayed For The Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost, but I tweaked it and changed up a lot, so enjoy!

It shouldn’t be unusual to have regular customers, in fact, it’s a good thing, but this one is just plain weird. 

He comes in every day at about an hour from closing, orders a black coffee and then just sits in the corner, looking at this file. Well, I assume he’s looking at the file, but every time I look up, he’s looking at me, biting his lip with this sad, woeful look in his eyes. When the clock strikes six, he stands up and leaves, never saying a word, but dropping ten dollar tip on the counter as he brushes past. I wonder what’s in that file that makes him so upset. 

He always dresses so well, in bright colors with whimsical patterns and glittering accents, but that brightness just doesn’t carry over to his features. His eyes are clouded with a hazy mist, forehead wrinkled and bags under his eyes. He was still beautiful, but the sadness marred his features.

Today was no different, the grandfather clock in the corner chimed five and he walked in, black boots scuffing against the ground. He met my gaze and his shoulders dropped, a tired sigh leaving his lips. “I need a-“ I cut him off by placing his order in his hands with a smile, trying to crack his shell even just the tiniest bit. He stuttered a little and took the cup gingerly from my hands, deftly avoiding even grazing my fingers. Maybe he had touch aversion or something.

He clutched the file tighter to his chest and walked briskly over to his table, pulling out the chair and sitting down slowly, like he didn’t want to be there. I honestly feel bad for the guy, he just seems so unhappy. Maybe he’s going through a divorce or something, that would explain the paperwork he totes around. But who would want to let him go? Oh well, it’s not my place to pry, I’m just here to serve coffee and overpriced pastries. 

I piddled behind the counter for a while, wiping and re-wiping the counter, refilling the coffee pots, just making busy work. I start to snoop if I’m left with nothing to do. A few more customers trickled in and out, some staying close to the counter to talk to me, some getting their order to go and hurrying out before the afternoon rush in traffic. That was my favorite part of having the restaurant; getting to talk to people and offer a laugh or two. I would be a comedian if it was ethical, but being a people pleaser in the taste bud department would have to do.

Finally, His Grumpiness in the corner couldn’t be ignored anymore, I just needed to figure out what his problem was. I grabbed a croissant that was going to be thrown out after the shift anyways and walked over to him, plopping down in the chair across from him. He startled at my sudden appearance, holding the stack of papers closer to his chest. 

“What’s wrong, Curly?” I asked, taking a bite from the croissant. “Nothing. Just thinking. Always thinking.” He said, the most I’ve ever gotten out of him. Any jokes that I try to crack are usually answered by the ghost of a smile or a polite giggle, never a verbal response. His voice sounds so much nicer than when he just says “one black, please” in that deep, almost gravelly voice of his.

“You seem sad, love, what’s eating you?” He sat the file gently down on the table and then scratched at his wrists idly, eyes flickering from scanning my features to studying the tiling on the floor, his feet shuffling and tapping. “Nothing, just thinking, like I said.” 

“You think a lot. Watch out, you’ll think yourself to death one day!” I giggled at my own comment, but stopped once I caught sight of The Thinker in his seat. He was frozen stiff, hands, gripping at the arms of his seat and face pale, borderline ashen. 

“Mate, are you ok?” I asked, laying my hand across his own. It was so peculiar; as soon as I made contact with him, it was like an electric current, making my hand tingle. He started and jumped up, snatching his hand back and tucking it into his pocket. “I’m fine, dandy even, I just, I’ve got to go, ok, sorry, bye.” Without further explanation, he left the shop in a whirlwind of flared pants and glittering boots, a whole ten minutes ahead of schedule. “Well, that just happened,” I said out loud to myself and the only other patron in there, an elderly lady that came in twice a week after her hair appointments.

I sighed and stood up, pushing our two chairs back in and picking up his half-full mug. I turned the dish into the washer and set about wiping down tables, flipping the sign to closed after Gloria left with a “Goodbye, Louis” and a small tip. Always so sweet, that one.

I grabbed the broom and turned off the smooth jazz station that was filtering over the speakers, changing it instead to my favorite music playlist. I danced around to “Footloose” while using the broom like a prop, which really wasn’t the most effective cleaning method. I halfheartedly swept under the tables while bouncing on my toes, humming along to the catchy song. 

I faltered when the broom caught on something heavy under Thinking Man’s table. I bent down and grabbed it myself, surprised to see that it was the file he carried around religiously. It’s a miracle that he even let it out of his sight. 

I pulled out the chair and sat down, plopping the paperwork on the table in front of me, contemplating. To snoop or not to snoop, that is the question. At the top of the file was a sticker with "H.E. Styles" in bold, red font. So his last name is Styles, presumably. It is rude to snoop, I’ll just give it back to him tomorrow if he isn’t too freaked out to make a reappearance.

I left the file where it sat and picked up my broom, finishing my closing up duties. Yeah, that lasted about five seconds before I was back in my chair, greedily flipping open the folder. 

The first thing at the top of the page was  _ what the shit _ my name. And then my birth date, and my family members, and  _ what the hell was this _ ? Was he like a Fed? Am I in trouble with the government? I haven’t done anything wrong! Maybe he’s a private investigator? But for who? And why would that make him miserable? 

It was like a car accident, I just couldn’t strip my gaze from the paper. It had my place of employment, people I’m affiliated with, all past residences, it had  _ everything. _ At the very bottom of the page, crunched in in tiny numbers, was the most ominous mark of all. DEATH DATE was written, and next to it was penciled 6/15/18, drawn through with a slash. That was two weeks ago. 

Underneath it was 6/16/18, also slashed through. The dates led all the way up to today, which had yet another angry red slash through it. Was this dude like a contract killer? But who would want to kill me? And if he was, he is absolutely horrid at keeping a low profile with those pants, lord knows. And apparently, he’s bad at his job, considering he still hadn’t gotten it over with.

I was reading through the paper for the umpteenth time when there was a knock at the door, making me nearly jump out of my skin and slam the folder shut. There was a frame of a person standing there, and as a car drove by, the headlights illuminated him to be identified as “Styles,” who was looking more frazzled than usual. I really shouldn’t let him, a contract killer and all, but today already had a slash through it, so theoretically I’m safe.

I walked across the room with the paper behind my back and unlocked the door, opening it with a cocked eyebrow. Before he could say anything, I whipped the folder from behind my back and held it under his nose, his eyes crossing from trying to focus on it. “You read it.” He croaked out, hesitantly taking it from my hands. “Of course I did, I’m a nosy little fucker. Care to explain?”

He sighed, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I waved for him to go on and said: “try me.”

“Fine. I’m the grim reaper, and I’m supposed to kill you. Happy now?” 

Ok, it was rude, but I couldn’t help but laugh. I laughed and laughed, doubling over from the force of it.  He looked so offended, jaw slightly unhinged with the folder held loosely in his hand. 

“You expect me, an intellectual, to believe that?” I gasped, still cackling. 

He sniffed haughtily and straightened his collar, “Fine, you don’t believe me. Watch this then.” With that, he blinked his eyes, and when he reopened, those weren’t his pretty, sad green eyes. In their place were red orbs flickering like flames, and it was like he was a walking buffer, the way a skeletal outline bled through his fair skin. I shut right up then, taking a stumbling step backward into the bar. 

“What the hell was that?” I yelled, easing down the edge of the bar until I made it to the entry, putting some space between the two of us. “I told you what I was, then I showed you!” He said, stepping through the door completely into the shop. I grabbed the first projectile I could find, his dirty coffee cup, and launched it in the vicinity of his head, missing by inches.

He flinched as it shattered against the wall, white chips falling to the floor. “Can you not-“ he ducked as a platter flew over his head, “murder me before I can talk to you?” “I can’t murder you, you’re already dead, and you want to kill me!” I screamed, verging on the edge of hysterical, which was merited. 

Again, the jab about death deflated him, any spite and spirit he had in him dissipating into the atmosphere. “Thanks for reminding me.” He mumbled, sitting down roughly in a chair.

I lowered my arm, loaded with a teapot, and sat it down, warily eyeing him as I made my way out from behind the counter, sitting in a seat clear on the other side of the shop. Plenty of room to get away from him in a pinch. 

“Why do you do that?” I asked, nosy even in my freaked out state. “Do what?” He asked tiredly, picking at the sleeves on his honestly hideous but probably worth more than my entire life shirt. “Get all mopey when I talk about death? If you really are a reaper or whatever, shouldn’t you love that?” He got a wistful look in his eyes and sat down the folder, crossing his legs. 

“Louis, are you aware of how one becomes a reaper?” I snorted, “Nah, sorry, I forgot to brush up on my reaper anatomy and physiology textbook last night.” “Cheeky, that’s why you’re still alive.”-I choose to ignore that, or I may freak out again- “ A reaper is born of one who takes their own life. Punishment from God or whoever lives in the cosmos for being a selfish brat. The moment I stopped breathing I was thrust into doing this, given very cryptic instructions and a folder much like yours. I was told to find the person, kill the person, and grab another folder.” 

“Wait, you have to kill the person? With your own bare hands?” He laughed, the first time I ever heard him do such a thing, “No, Fate handles that, actually a nice lady, I just lead them to the afterlife and drop them off in Purgatory until they get shipped wherever.” This was so unbelievable, but for some reason, my gut was telling me that this guy was telling the truth. No one could make up something as detailed as this without having actually lived it. 

“I’m guessing that this job sucks dick?” “Like a cheap pornstar.” We chuckled dryly, not at all amused.

“How many have you killed?” I asked, making him draw in a breath. “Well, you’re my fiftieth, my ticket out of this job. After fifty, you’ve made up for your selfishness and can chill around the cosmos, haunt some people, whatever you fancy.” “If I’m your ticket, then why haven’t you killed me yet?” “That’s the issue. I like you too damn much. The first day I walked into this shop, hell bent-literally- on getting out of this job, and you were dancing to some song as you made a latte, smiling wide and laughing at a joke your customer told you about your dancing, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I got a coffee and sat down, just watching you. I figured if I watched long enough, you’d turn out to be an asshole and I’d get to do this with a clear conscience, but you were just so damn perfect. It would be like killing an angel.”

I remembered that day, the first that he came in. He pushed the door open and walked in, head held high and guns blazing, raring to go. I recall winking to him as I danced around, and I watched as the fight just left his body. His determined expression fell into a confused one, and his shoulders drooped from their high stance on his frame. He had meekly come up to the counter and got his coffee, then retreated into the corner.

Every day after that, he came in with the same determined attitude, which melted away almost the second I waved or spoke to him. Eventually, he just sulked in, never showing any motivation or fight. Only I could charm a reaper into not killing me. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how am I supposed to die?”  He answered by referring to the folder, which meant that he had pretty much memorized it in its entirety. “You’re supposed to have a heart attack.” “A heart attack,” I scoffed, “I’m 27, 27-year-olds don’t have heart attacks.” 

“They do when they have progressive coronary artery disease.” “I have what? And you’re just now telling me this?” “Well, you won’t die unless I kill you, which I don’t see happening, so you’re good.”

“You have a deadly disease, but don’t worry about going to the doctor.” I mocked in a low voice, making him give me an extremely unimpressed look. “I’m seriously rethinking sparing you.” He said, but the twitch of his lips confirmed that there was no fire behind it.

I thought back to something he said earlier, about how you have to kill yourself to be a reaper, and I looked to the long sleeves on his arms despite the warm weather and his perpetual habit of scratching them, and I didn’t even have to ask.

“Since you refuse to kill me, what does that entail with your eternal existence?” “Oh, absolutely nothing. They’re not allowed to double or reassign reaper cases, so as long as you’re alive, I’m still technically working. I can keep you alive for as long as I want. And since I won’t kill you, the job isn’t as miserable because I’m not actively murdering innocent people. Except for Chad. I took pleasure in killing Chad. Fucking creep he was. So I can basically just drift around Earth until I get bored of you.” 

My eyes widened and he kept his stony expression for about .5 seconds before bursting into laughter, “Kidding, kidding. Just a bit of reaper humor.” “I bet you’re fun at parties,” I grumbled, fighting back my own smile.

I happened to glance over at the clock and saw that it was nearing midnight. “Christ, I have to be up at six!”  I yelled, jumping out of my seat. “Awe, I have to leave?” He said, dramatically pouting. He got real clingy, real fast.

“Yes, I have to go home and-wait, where exactly do you live?” “Everywhere, I just drift about from place to place.” “Well, that’s just depressing. Come on, you’re coming home with me.” 

He looked like a kid in a candy store the way his face lit up. “Stop that grinning before I change my mind. And before I let an entire stranger into my house, what is your name?” “Harry. You’re the first person to ever ask my name, fun fact.” I rolled my eyes, “Impending doom is really not the best of times to be exchanging formalities, Harold.”

He frowned, “It’s just Harry.” “Whatever you say, Harold.”

I felt like I was bringing home a stray, the way he followed behind me right on my heels, happily chattering about everything. It was really quite adorable. How such a happy person could ever reach the point that they had to end their lives was a mystery to me. We made it to my appointment block and he trailed behind me up the stairs, counting them out loud. I do believe that I’ve begun to fancy an actual basket case. 

When I finally opened my door, he barreled in and showed himself around, flicking through the television channels and starting the microwave for like one second just to hear it beep. He must have sensed me judging him from the corner, because he slowly turned off the can opener and tucked his hands in his pockets, “Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been in such a domestic situation. The little things mean a lot when you don’t get to do a lot.” 

I smiled and sat down my bag, honestly endeared by his childlike approach to something as simple as a television. “Speaking of, exactly how long have you been, erm, celestial?” I asked, trying to find a word to accurately describe him. “That was the nicest thing I’ve ever been called. And it’s been like twenty-five years, give or take. I like to space out my clients, try to give them a few extra months.” 

“How sweet. But now I can’t stop seeing you as like a 40-year-old perv with fancy pants.” “Technically, yes, physically I’m twenty, just as I was the day I… I’m not old, I promise.” He awkwardly jumped across the elephant in the room, pretty much hurdled to get across that mammoth. I let him keep his secrets and instead switched to sensible things like what he was going to sleep in, “I have some clothes that would probably fit you, like a crop top maybe, but they’ll fit.” “Oh, I’ll just grab my bag.” “Your what-“ annnd he’s gone.

One second he’s standing there in the middle of the kitchen, the next he’s gone to who knows where. Just poof, instant removal. What even is my life? 

 “Harry?” I asked softly, looking around like he’d pop up from behind the couch or summat. Less than a second later, there was a thump from the apartment above me and a girlish scream, then Harry was back in front of me, wide-eyed and with a  bag the size of me. “I dropped into the wrong apartment, I went to 382 instead of 282 and it was bad.” He said, looking like he was having war flashbacks.

“Did you scare someone? Was that was the scream was?” That as the last thing I needed to deal with, getting reported for having a strange teleporting intruder in my house. “No, I was the one that screamed. I dropped into the middle of a very passionate moment between your neighbors, and now I want to bleach my eyes.” 

I snorted and looked at the monstrous bag, which frankly looked like something out of ’95. “Where the hell did you get this bag?” Oh, this thing?” He laid it down and popped open the clasps, “I started collecting after a while of wearing the same old boring stuff. Just kind of accumulated a massive inventory after a few years.” “You are such a little diva.” He snapped his fingers and was in different clothes, sweatpants, and a big long sleeve shirt, beanie pulled own over his head. 

“Correction, a magical diva.” He said shutting the bag and standing back up. “I wish I could do that,” I mumbled, trudging into the bedroom to change like a normal person. I peeled off my work uniform and slid on shorts and a t-shirt, whistling when I was done to let Harry know it was safe to come in.

He looked around as he tentatively stepped in, scanning the crowded walls and looking at the mounds of laundry on the floor. “It’s messy,” I said, self-consciously kicking a small mountain of dirty laundry under the edge of the bed, where it would probably stay for a month. “It’s you.” He said. “It’s different seeing how people actually live nowadays, how domestic this is. I spend my days killing people and phasing from one place to the next, never really get an insight into human life in this day and age.” 

“And you end up getting stuck seeing my shitty one, I do apologize.” He rolled his eyes, “You do talk some shit, Louis.” We both laughed and I fell onto the bed, sighing at the soft mattress.

“I’m gonna go set up camp on the couch.” He said quietly, and I heard him stumble over something, probably some shoes. “You can stay in here, you know.” I offered before I chickened out. “Are you, I mean are you sure? It is kind of my job to kill you, I wouldn’t be letting my murderer stay in the same house as me, let alone the same room.” “If you kill me, then who will let you play with their microwave?” 

He nodded and awkwardly pulled back the comforter, scooting into the bed until he was barely touching me, just far enough over that he didn’t fall off of the side of the bed. “I’m not going to bite,” I said, rolling over so that I was facing him and my legs were over his, blanket scrunched up around my face. I’ve always been a rather tactile person. “But I might.” He whispered ominously, cracking into giggles after a second. “Arse,” I muttered, yawning and closing my eyes. “Goodnight, Harold.” “Goodnight, Lewis.”

When waking up from a hella good sleep, you aren’t expecting to have a face looming over you, curls hanging down and tickling your nose. “Jesus, Harry,” I said, sitting up with a jolt, resulting in our foreheads clunking together. He pouted and rubbed his head, “Sorry, you just look adorable when you sleep. You snore.” “I do not!” “And drool.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, grimacing at the wet feeling I was met with. As I got my bearings, I noticed the lack of clothing on the floor and my drawers actually closed. And there was the distinct smell of bacon drifting through the door. “Did you clean my house?” I asked, throwing my feet over the side of the bed and padding around the room, marveling at the hardwood floor I had forgotten was there. 

“Is that not okay?’ he asked, fretting with his fingers. “No, that’s ace. Thank you. But, it’s six in the morning, when did you have time to do this?” “Oh, I don’t sleep, I just cleaned while you were.” “Well thank you, you strange little man,” I said, patting him on the chest as I followed the wafting scent of breakfast foods. 

“Hey, I’m not little!” he said, crossing his huge arms. He’s not wrong. “I take back the little statement. But try and fight me on the strange.” “You’ve got me there.”

A full English is a heavenly sight, practically holy. There were biscuits, bacon, eggs, the whole nine yards. “Do you want milk or sugar in your tea?” He asked, pointing to the empty cup in front of my chair. “What kind of man do you think I am, of course, I want some milk.” He rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, and bam a perfect cup of tea on the table. “I’m beginning to think that you didn’t actually cook all of this,” I said, taking a suspicious bite of perfectly charred bacon. 

“I would have, but I didn’t know how to turn on your oven.” He said, taking a bite of his own eggs. “Remind me to give you lesson later,” I said, moaning around the pancake in my life. Magic cooking is the best cooking, confirmed. 

“You say that like I’m going to be here forever.” He said. “Well, I am your client, you know. It’s your job to lurk around me. If anyone asks any questions, just say that I’m quite wily. Very elusive.” “You’re a menace, that’s what you are.”

I nodded my agreement and finished up eating, pushing back from the table and telling Harry I was going to change. While I was putting on a clean work shirt, my phone rang, Mom’s names flashing across the screen. “Hey, mum,” I said while fighting to get my pants leg cuffed with one hand.

“Hello dear, anything exciting happened recently?”  _ Oh yes, I just had a lovely magically conjured up breakfast with the grim reaper, who does not carry around a scythe, contrary to popular belief. And he will get offended if you ask. Also, I have coronary artery disease and was scheduled to die two weeks ago. The reaper is also my unofficial roomie. Plus he looks like a YSL model, which is a bonus. Other than the occasional red eyes, but you can’t win all of the time. Nothing exciting at all. _

“Lou?” She asked, probably thinking the call had gotten dropped. “Oh, sorry Mum, no, nothing exciting. Just getting ready to leave for work.” “Ok, I won’t keep you, love. Have a good day.”

We hung up and I slipped on my Vans, heading back int the living room. Harry was perched on the edge of the couch, skinny jeans and pink button up intact. He was swearing and poking at the remote, trying to turn the TV on.”Come on, I’ll show you how everything works when we get home, I’ve got to go and I assume you’re coming with.” He smiled and sat down the remote, happily following me out of the door, heeled boots clicking against the floor. 

“You said home.” He chirped, practically skipping by me. “That I did.” He beamed and started humming, and there was no way this cherub was in charge of killing people. He sang the entire way to the shop, eliciting some weird looks from early morning passerby’s with his happy disposition and off-key singing.

After the door was opened, he bustled in and hopped up on the counter, which I should fuss at him about, but not right now. “So now what happens?” he asked while his legs swung, nearly taking me out .”You grab that broom and clean up the stuff that shattered when I threw it at you.” I said, pointing to the discarded broom in the corner. He pouted but snapped his fingers, setting the broom into motion. The cheekiness is tangible. 

“I meant with your hands, but whatever,” I grumbled, getting a stinking cute grin in return. Any customer that comes in is probably going to have a heart attack (reminder, get that checked), but at least it’s being done. I should really keep Harry around if it means no manual labor. “That’s all I’m good for, eh? Being a maid?” He asked in mock defense. “How did you know that? Let me guess you can read minds?” 

Of course, he can, I’ll never get away with anything ever again. 

“Nah, only yours. I’m technically an extension of your body and soul. I feel what you feel and think what you think. I’m just a cuter version of you.” I scowled and raised my eyebrows pointedly, “Can you hear me thinking of getting rid of you?” “Ah, sweet Louis. It’s simple, you get rid of me, you are offing yourself.” “Excellent cover story for being a freeloading weasel.” 

He stuck his tongue out at me and waved his hand, gently setting the finished broom in the corner. The bell on the door tolled and I ushered Harry off of the counter, smiling as one of the regular morning commute customers came in for her vanilla bean latte.

*************************

Life with Harry turned into an easy routine. He would do all of the cooking and cleaning with a magial snap, and in return, he got to live with me and be entertained by my ace jokes.  

We had even somehow managed several outings with my friends, who thought that Harry was the coolest thing since sliced bread. Niall had gone as far as to offer Harry a french fry at the last pub night. Niall doesn't offer  _anyone_ his food. 

Only I would have friends who fancied the Grim Fucking Reaper over me. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, comments?


End file.
